


Remember

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John's private diary, M/M, No Mary Watson bashing, Post Sherrinford, Pre-Johnlock, Regrets, first person Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: It's the 5th of November and old memories are stirred up, leading John to reflect on his regrets and missed chances. But his story isn't over.





	1. The 5th of November

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in haste, in an effort to get the first chapter posted before November 5th had passed me. As usual this is un-Beta'd and un-Brit-picked. All mistakes are my own, and I fear there may be many, as I didn't edit before I posted.  
> I'm not yet sure exactly how long this will be, but I promise not all of it will be as angsty as this first chapter.
> 
> Edited for format and some mistakes! Please let me know if I missed anything, dear readers. Or just drop me a line if you enjoyed it :)

          The nightmare—half dread and half recall of actual events—sent John clawing his way from sleep to a state of heart-shuddering awareness in seconds. He hadn't had such a vivid, and awful, dream in months; thankfully they had begun to recede. This was the first time his nightmares had been about something besides Mary. Most of his nightmares over the last year had been about Mary's death, about running into that fucking Aquarium just that little bit too late to save her, to stop the bullet, to take down Norbury...to act once more as Sherlock's bridle and shut him the hell up as he goaded the woman who killed his wife. Intellectually, John knew (had known all along) that Sherlock wasn't responsible for Mary's death. Even his inability to keep from tearing Norbury apart hadn't been the reason for Mary's death. It was the older woman's choice to pull the trigger. It was Mary's choice to jump in front of Sherlock. It was John and Mary's choice to bring a child into this dangerous, cruel world they dabbled in; and their choice to leave John behind to wait for Molly to arrive and watch Rosie. It was Mary's fault for becoming an assassin. It was everybody's fault and no one's.

          This dream wasn't about Mary. She was there. But in the background, hazy, out of focus, her voice shrill but somehow muffled. Sherlock was crystal clear and as real and solid as in life. His therapist would probably say that it was a metaphor for his life. Mary was gone, dead, the clarity of her features, her smell, her voice, fading from his consciousness. Sherlock was alive and startlingly, wonderfully, back in his life full time. Well, more like part-time. They were working some cases together, updating the blog, the website. John spent at least two evenings a week at Baker Street with Rosie. But the rest of the time he—they—went back to the flat he'd shared with Mary. Rosie was almost two now, and she was bright, charming, funny; an entertaining and high-energy toddler. The flat was hardly silent when she was awake, but somehow the place felt lifeless. John rather suspected it was because Mary was gone, and her absence was making itself known.

          She was truly gone. He no longer saw her everywhere he went, no longer carried on conversations with his dead wife. Well, he supposed they were less conversations than they were him arguing with himself. It wasn't as if he were crazy, or seeing a ghost. It was a coping mechanism. John didn't need a therapist to tell him that. He'd experienced it after Sherlock's Fall as well. John supposed he didn't like to let go. Despite Rosie's babbling and giggles, and the sound of her playing or watching cartoons, or his running commentary with her as he cleaned, or made dinner, or gave her a bath...John thought the flat was too silent, too empty. Even when he hadn't been speaking to Mary all those months after he found out about her past, it hadn't seemed this quiet. And it was too bloody clean and sterile. Mary's things were boxed up or donated, so there were empty spaces where her belongings had been, even though he'd made an effort to fill the empty spaces. Even though he had a child—and all her things—in the house, he found himself cleaning compulsively, to fill the time, and it was all too clinical. He missed the musty, disordered coziness of 221B. He missed his old room, his old routines. He missed Sherlock.

          Maybe that was why Sherlock had been so life-like in his nightmare. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, John rolled onto his elbow and reached for his mobile to check the time. It was after five. Rosie hadn't cried yet. She was pretty good about sleeping through the night, but more often than not she woke whimpering before dawn, needing her pull-ups changed. He'd be grateful when she was trained to use the toilet full time. John thought about getting up, making a cup of tea, sitting at the window that looked over the street and watching the slow parade of joggers, walkers and people out about their business. He thought about rolling over and trying to snatch a bit more sleep. It was a Sunday, no need to be up so early. He hadn't any plans...perhaps he could bundle Rosie up and they could walk over to Baker Street, spend the day with Sherlock. John glanced again at his mobile, wondering if his friend was up. He'd been sleeping more regular hours, but it was no guarantee that he might not already be up. The screen had gone back to sleep, but the date and time were displayed. It was with surprise that John realized it was the 5th of November. He flopped back on the bed, the hand holding the mobile dropping on to his chest. Bloody hell, no wonder he'd dreamt about being trapped in that fire. It wasn't, by far, the worst thing he'd ever experienced, but it had been a pretty traumatizing experience, all told, although he'd done his best to laugh it off at the time. Now it mostly surfaced in dreams around the same time every year.

          Deciding he wasn't going to fall back asleep, John rose, and made his bed; really it was half the bed. The right side, Mary's side, had remained undisturbed for fifteen months. Feeling another shiver of memory and emotion wash over him, John sat down, rumpling the duvet, and picked up the framed picture of her on their wedding day, which he kept on his side of the bed. "You've been gone from our daughter's life for longer than you were part of it," he said in a raspy voice, staring at her smiling face. He wondered if, Rosie's existence aside, they would have made it, had Mary lived. He'd made his peace—with much shouting, and sulking and long talks with Sherlock—with the idea of all the lies, and the subterfuge, although never entirely with the fact of her having _shot and_   _nearly killed_ _Sherlock_. But at the time, that Christmas at The Cottage, he'd mostly forgiven her because their child was shortly to be born, was going to enter this world and by God he'd wanted to offer his daughter a solid, happy life with two parents, under one roof. Life in the suburbs, with his wife, and child, work as a doctor...it was all the things he'd once wanted when he was a much younger man, all the things he should want. But damn it all if it hadn't turned out to not be all he needed. 

          He also needed an edge of danger; stupid decisions; late night laughter; bad Chinese food and excellent conversation. Mary had been exhausted, tangled up in motherhood, minus the occasional foray into a case with Sherlock, and John had been pulled in twenty different directions. He'd tried to fulfill his obligations at the clinic, to his patients, to his coworkers, be there as a supportive, equal partner for Mary, be a good, attentive, involved father for Rosie, still work some cases with Sherlock, make sure Sherlock was eating, sleeping, not going completely anti-social, find time for a few pints with Lestrade, keep in touch with Harry, with Sholto, run a few errands for Mrs. Hudson... It had been exhausting and suffocating and like a stupid, stupid prick, he had fallen into Eurus' trap and become enamoured of a cute redhead on the bus. Having a woman find him handsome, charming, funny, have her approach him, want to be with him, send him exciting, racy late night texts...God, it had been an ego boost John hadn't even known he needed. He'd made all the usual excuses to himself, but the fact was, he was emotionally and mentally cheating on his wife, on his daughter, and on his marriage. 

          John felt more guilt over three weeks of texting than he did over not being there in time to stop the bullet that killed Mary.

          She made choices in life that led to that moment; as much as he wanted to blame himself, it had all started long before he, or Sherlock, became involved.

          But the cheating? That was all on him. Sherlock had been surprisingly gentle, pointing out that there was no escaping it...they were all human. His therapist (exhaustively vetted by both Sherlock and Mycroft and categorically proven to not be Eurus or one of her minions) had said much the same thing, albeit in longer sessions and using more theraputic language. John was working on his guilt. His grief, except for sudden, almost startling, moments, had settled into a background noise, something that might always be with him, but with which he could cope. On a day to day basis he didn't dwell on the loss of Mary. Memories of her came, sometimes more than others, but he tried not to brood. Today he supposed he could be forgiven, with the anniversary of his near death at hand, and the approach of the holidays bringing back memories. 

          After checking in on Rosie—clean and dry and breathing with little snuffles from the last of her cold—John padded down the short hallway to the kitchen and put the kettle on, settling at his usual chair at the small table while he booted up his laptop. He was feeling introspective. Perhaps it was time for a private diary entry. Not something for the blog.

          Sipping his steaming cup of Irish breakfast, John bit off a corner of toast and began writing.  _I'm not sure why I dream about the fire. It was bad, though not as bad as lots of other thing I've experienced or witnessed and yet for some reason the memory refuses to die. I keep having the same dream over and over. Choking and coughing and feeling my head swim from the drugs and the smoke. God, I was afraid I would die from the fumes before the fire got to me, which was my only comfort. I didn't want to die feeling that hot lick, unable to get away as it consumed me. And yet I was afraid that if the smoke killed me it would be too soon...because I knew, I KNEW that Sherlock would come. I knew he would save me. He'd done it, he'd finally made a miracle happen just two weeks before, and he'd come back from the dead. For me. So I knew that somehow, it wouldn't be too much for him to find me in that anonymous bonfire. He's Sherlock Holmes, able to bring about the impossible._

_And he came. He found me and he dragged me out of the fire with his bare hands and Christ, even as disoriented as I was, I could hear his barely controlled panic. He thought he was too late, he thought he'd lost me. Even if he didn't understand before why I was so angry that he'd lied to me and let me believe he was dead...I think in that moment it sank in, a cold, dense weight in his belly. Sherlock knew then what it was to feel he'd witnessed my death, was touching my corpse, had missed that elusive window of maybe and some day and never was, and I saw it...fuck me, but I saw it flare in his eyes, the moment he realized what he would have lost. Sherlock Holmes loves me._

_And I love him._

_I do. Christ, do I ever. I've tried to deny it, for years I was very, very vocal (too vocal, I guess) about how emphatically not gay I was. And I'm not. Or I wasn't. Or I am and didn't realize it? Bisexual or something, that's me, I suppose. Or maybe it's not about sexuality but about desire and impulse and love and a thousand other messy emotions I'm absolute rubbish at interpreting and acting on appropriately. It's funny that everyone, including me, accused Sherlock so often of having no idea of how to appropriately behave, how to interact with people, and he would look to me for cues…and yet, I'm such a shit human being and a typical man when it comes to knowing anything at all about how people feel and what they need. But whatever it means, whatever I am, I would have been that, for him._   _Although this is only in theory. Only for him would I have been willing--Christ, eager, to move it into a testing phase. If there had ever been the slightest chance, back before the Fall, that I had thought he felt anything like what I felt for him, I might have damned everything and done something about it. But he never gave me that opening, never let me see anything other than friendship in his eyes. And his friendship was enough. It will always be enough, which is why I can't possibly say anything and risk losing one more person I love._

_But I knew. I felt it, at times. And there, at the End. At the hospital, during his fucking awful goodbye...I heard it. Faint, and wavering and snatched away by the wind but it was there in his voice as it became more and more emotional and I heard the tears he wouldn't let fall. Even more than losing him, knowing I might have had a chance if I hadn't been such a coward, that was what tore at me soul deep once he was gone. All our might have beens._

_And I suppose they were still there, when he came back. But there was also two years of soul-sucking grief and guilt and bitterness and a fragile rebuilding of my life. A life which absolutely included Mary, and which was rather inescapably leading towards marriage. So I let my feelings focus on rage and I ignored all his efforts to contact me for two weeks, until circumstances forced us back into one another's orbit._

_I never formally proposed to Mary, after that admittedly shit beginning at the restaurant. She just assumed, and I never said hey wait stop I'm freaking out a little here. No I just held onto her and ploughed ahead and closed my eyes to anything else. And I don't regret that really. My life might be, and might have been, easier if I had sat Mary down and told her I wasn't ready. If I had let the relationship die the natural death ALL of my relationships die, and moved on. Moved back in with Sherlock. Maybe seen what, if anything, we could manage between us._

_But despite it all, I can't regret any happiness I might have given Mary, any feeling of home and comfort and security I gave her and that she absolutely gave me (not all the time, of course, but then, we were both fucked up human beings and who could expect perfection?) I can't regret my beautiful Rosamunde, or the fact of her being. I know she's going to be waking up at any time now and I'm going to have to shelve this no doubt poorly written and rambling...what is this? Diary entry? Like I'm an overly emotional teenage girl._

_No, I don't regret Mary. I don't regret the few years we had together. But it eats at me, that I was such a coward. Because that's what it all boils down to. I have been a coward over and over again when it comes to him. It would be easier—although unlikely!—if Sherlock would do it. If he'd just come to me and tell me he loves me. I'm not sure what I expect to happen then. I don't quite think he wants, or is ready for, a physical relationship, and I'm not really sure I am either. But to finally have it out in the open. That would be good...really, really good._

_I thought he might be going to say something on the stag night. His eyes were so watchful, his behaviour strangely stiff, even though it was the great Sherlock Holmes on a stag night...still it was just him and just me and normally we don't stand on ceremony with each other. But that night he kept a wall between us, even when we were so incredibly drunk._

_I thought he was going to say it the morning of my wedding. We got ready in the same room, and he came to help me with my tie and he met my eyes in the mirror, as we've done a thousand times before, all those times I thought I read something in his eyes, and we stared at one another just a little too long. And then he moved away and the moment was gone and I told myself I was glad. I had to be, didn't I? The days when we might have been something were over and done with._

_And now we're John and Sherlock once more, although with little Rosie along for the ride most of the time, and that possibility may still exist, but reality tells me the moment has receded so far into the past that it's no longer visible._

The relatively low whine of Rosie's morning whimper interrupted John's urgent tapping at the laptop, and he sat up, blinking away his intense focus on his inner thoughts. Closing the laptop, he pushed away from the table. No time for remembering any more today. "Coming, Rosie. Daddy's on his way."

 


	2. For the Love of John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 5th from Sherlock's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like most of us fan-fiction writers, I think I'll never be entirely happy with how I write dialogue or inner monologue for Sherlock, but overall I'm fairly happy with this. The man is delightfully difficult to capture, particularly since I'm sadly not that level of genius. Hopefully he doesn't sound too out of character.

          John is different today. He looks the same; his outward appearance has not altered; in fact, he wears the same button down and sweater he wore two Sundays ago. As usual, he wears no cologne, smelling instead of wool, tea, soap, Rosie’s shampoo, and a vaguely antiseptic smell which follows him about even on days he has not worked at the clinic.

          It is a mark of how much the man means to me that the smell of isopropyl alcohol should please me so.

          So, it isn’t his appearance. I do not think he is worried, although his face is thoughtful. Watson seems fine, still talking away in her somewhat unintelligible toddler babble to Mrs. Hudson, who is following them up the stairs. She is facing over her father’s shoulder, still focused on Mrs. Hudson, whom she calls Hudders and seems to feel a great affinity for, although that may just be the frequency with which she is offered biscuits. It isn’t until John crosses the threshold and says my name in greeting that she whips her head around—dark blonde curls flattened by her tiny panda-bear hat—and squeals excitedly. My heart absolutely does not leap about in my chest. That is physically impossible.

          With enthusiasm—as the child does everything, including sleep—Watson reaches for me demandingly and calls out my name. Or her approximation of it, which mostly sounds like a drunkard’s slurring. I correct her, as ever, enunciating crisply. I refuse to answer to “Sherl” any longer than absolutely necessary. I do, however, accede to her demands and take her from John, talking (firmly and clearly. Baby talk is an abomination and its use by adults will not be tolerated under this roof) all the while scanning John for clues.

          He rose early, too many cups of tea, he’s been thinking about Mary. His face is calm, however, so no overly guilty or depressing thoughts. Toast for breakfast—he’s still too thin, we must order in lunch—and they walked here. “How’s her cold?” I ask briskly, unwinding Watson from her puffy coat, her scarf, her miniscule mittens, and holding her hand as she pulls me impatiently across the room to check on the progress of our “experiment.” It is, in reality, two paper cups, each holding soil and a bean. One has enriched soil and the other does not. Watson peers at them intently, tiny hands on her knees as she hums and mumbles (I told her she should always tell me her observations, and until she is able to write, I will note down her findings for her).

          John updates me on her status as I fetch the “case notes” for the experiment and begin jotting down Rosie’s observation, along with pointed finger, that “’at un is gweener” and do a little sketch, which absorbs her utterly as she watched the motions of my mechanical pencil. When I am done, I hand her the pencil and notebook and let her “draw” her own findings. Meanwhile, John has made tea, and Mrs. Hudson has bustled out to do the shopping or have an extramarital tryst with Mr. Chatterjee, or perhaps let the gas man in, I wasn’t listening.

          We sip our tea in comfortable silence. John watches Watson, a slight smile on his lips, as I watch him. He has so far met my eyes without seeming to be hiding anything, and his manner is his usual, and yet I know instinctively that he has something weighty on his mind. No, not instinct. That’s ridiculous. I have seen, I simply have not observed the tell which would indicate what is on his mind. Instead, I have let myself be distracted by his smell, and the fact that he is still a good ten pounds underweight, and by Watson, and by all the little, warm, comforting, but distracting factors that comprise a visit by the two people I love the most.

          This should serve as a warning to me. I absolutely should not ask— “Are you ever going to move back in?”

          We have not talked about this since shortly after our reconciliation. I had meant it sincerely at the time (still do) but John was adamant that he needed some time to grieve, to put his life back together, to focus on Watson. He feared, he told me, that we were neither one of us in a good enough place to judge correctly whether he was ready to come back, whether I was ready to live with someone again. John had shared with me—oh so gently—that Watson was a full-time responsibility, and one he didn’t think I was prepared for. “Not,” he’d rushed to assure me, “that I don’t trust you! You’ve been better with her than I would have first thought. But living full time with a baby is stressful, and I’m afraid neither of us is ready for that.”

          Though it had pained me to hear it, and pained me to learn he was correct, it truly would not have been easy for any of us. I’m not entirely certain I am fully equipped for having Watson here day in and day out, but I’ll never find out until I convince John to move back, and I’m not prepared to wait any longer. I could give a list of reasons, and am ready to do so if necessary, but the bald fact is that I miss him.

          His face answers me before he speaks; it is unmistakably the face of a man who wants nothing more. His tone, however, tells a different story, “Sherlock…”

          “John, it has been nearly a year since we last discussed it. Watson is older; she is more independent, more in control of her faculties. I enjoy her company, and clearly she is fond of me—” I pretend to disregard his murmured, “She _loves_ you.” despite the warm bloom it engenders in my chest, “—and I am fond of her.” He lets me know with a single lift of his eyebrow that he is not remotely fooled. “I’ve made an effort to take better care of myself per your positively draconian views regarding meals and rest.”

          He sets his empty tea cup down, and I do the same, because mirroring gestures is reassuring to people on an unconscious level, and that’s not manipulation, it’s just basic psychology. “Sherlock,” he says again, “Everything you said is true; Rosie is older, and she’s much more able to take care of herself in small ways. But she requires constant supervision, endless patience…she still wears nappies for heaven’s sake!”

          Watson looks up from her drawings and frowns at her father, “I no’ a baby! I wear big gill pants!”

          “You still wear pull-ups at night,” John corrects her gently. “But yes, you’re right, you do wear big girl pants during the day.” Under his breath, “Mostly.” Satisfied, she went back to her drawing, humming under her breath. I had a brief vision of Eurus at that age, stealing my purple crayon and singing to herself as she coloured in a page in my colouring book. I continue, all these many months later, to find the unasked for recall of forgotten memories disorienting and sometimes disturbing. This one had been disturbing because it hadn’t been a bad memory, just the memory of a little sister taking my favourite crayon. Once, she too, had been a small girl, who tucked her tongue between her teeth and concentrated fiercely on her artwork.

          “It isn’t just that, though, Sherlock, it’s a dozen other little things I’m not sure you’re ready for. What if she has a tantrum when you’re in the middle of a problem? What if she wants to watch Peppa Pig while you’re napping on the sofa? She has to eat regular meals and go to bed early and take naps, and sometimes she has a meltdown over tiny things I don’t get and I’m her father! Rosie is curious and increasingly agile, and she would try to get into your experiments, you for damned sure couldn’t keep body parts in the fridge!”

          I have an answer to those last two fears, anyway. Rising, I crook a finger at him, “Come, I want to show you something.” I sweep toward the door, only to turn when John clears his throat meaningfully and nods toward Watson, who has abandoned her art and is now trying to climb onto the desk and reach my violin.

          “Forget something?” He asks sardonically.

          “Of course not, John, I wouldn’t forget her.” Not too often, before I remembered to remember her. “I thought Mrs. Hudson could watch her. We won’t be long.” Covering, I stuck my head out the door to the flat, “Mrs. Hudson! Will you come up and watch Watson for a few minutes?”

          “She went out,” John said, laughter in his voice.

          “Ah, yes, but then she came back just now,” I tell him in triumph, glad that part of me had noticed the sound of her keys in the front door.

          “Coming!” She called, voice faint as she moved through the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, she looked up, “What did you boys need?”

          After she agreed to come up and watch his daughter, John agreed to accompany me. “You won’t need your coat,” I tell him, and he drops it back on the hook, where it looks right at home next to my Belstaff. Watson’s puffy pink coat doesn’t yet look like it belongs, but if I have my way it will. He followed me downstairs, through the doorway in the hall and down the short flight of stairs to the damp basement flat Mrs. Hudson could never rent out. Until now.

          “I’ve rented this. It’s my new lab.” I gesture around me, at the sitting room, which is nicely outfitted with all I could possibly need (within reason. Mycroft is stingy with my trust fund) and then point toward the kitchen, “I’ve got a refrigerator in there which is more than capable of holding all my samples.”

          “No more toes in the crisper?” John mused, mouth tilting up as he looked around. “No more eyeballs at the breakfast table? A teakettle unviolated by cadaver bits?”

          “The kitchen in 221B has been sanitized so thoroughly that surgery could be performed there,” I inform him loftily.

          “It’s impressive,” he admitted, hands in his pockets as he wandered about, inspecting my test tubes, my microscope, the perfectly spaced (and dazzlingly sterilized) instruments. “This definitely makes a difference.”

          “But not enough of one,” I said flatly, hearing the no, sensing it. Damn it! What must I do to earn John’s trust?

          “Give it six months,” John said. That was _not_ what I had anticipated. I thought surely it would be a firm no, nicely couched. “Let me get Rosie toilet trained, let me get things at the flat ready—I’m not saying yes just yet, mind—should I put it on the market.” He looked up from studying the toes of his brogues, eyes strangely intent under his lowered brows, “Let’s start with the two of us coming ‘round more often. You haven’t spent as much time with her as I think you think you have.”

          “Done,” I agreed instantly, relieved. I had thought this would be much harder. (Actually, I had thought it would be the easiest thing in the world, a year ago, and now I was prepared for disappointment). “Did you have particular nights in mind? Shall we set up a schedule? Perhaps you should do days as well, so we can gauge how I handle all of Watson’s moods, and they may be affected by the foods she eats or the frequency of her naps.” I rubbed my hands together, eager to begin, “It might be best if you left her with me for the whole day, so we can judge how well I handle her on my own. You’ll need to go to work sometimes, and Mrs. Hudson won’t always be available, nor will her nursery school.”

          John looked slightly overwhelmed. “Um, alright…how about we start by spending the day together today? I didn’t bring enough in her bag but maybe we can catch a cab before her nap, grab a few things.”

          “Or,” I offered, scoffing, “You can leave her with me whilst you go. We might as well begin as we mean to go on.”

          “Mrs. Hudson mentioned she had plans…so she won’t be here to, erm, help you, should you need it.”

          He was going to say “rescue” I know it. “Surely I can manage one two year old for an hour, John.”

          John laughed, “Are you sure you’re ready for full on responsibility of a toddler for an hour?”

          “You think I’m useless, don’t you?” I tried to play it off, but I was genuinely hurt and insulted. I’ve faced criminal masterminds and come out on top. I dismantled terrorist organizations, foiled murderers, fought assassins.

          “No useless, no. Just…unprepared.”

 

******

 

          Dear God, _when_ is John going to be back? Surely it has been an hour. It must be closer to two hours. Oh. It is only been fifteen minutes. “Watson, come now, stop crying. Here’s your elephant!” I wave the stuffed pink elephant in front of her, but it has significantly less impact on her wails than it did when she was a few months old.

          She’s been crying since John left. I haven’t done anything to alarm her, and yet she began sobbing from the moment she realized he wasn’t coming back through the door immediately. I tried reasoning with her. I tried ignoring her. I attempted distraction. I even took one of the choc digestives I keep for when I need a bit of comfort food and offered it to her. Now she is covered in tears, snot and chocolate. The digestive lies on the rug, chocolate side down, of course, and Watson is lying disconsolately in front of the flat door, face red and smeared, her small frame heaving with the force of her sobs.

          Never mind the fact that I think I may shortly begin to be driven insane by the noise; I’m afraid she’ll damage her throat if she keeps this up. And John surely will not be impressed if he comes home to find a hysterical, red-faced, sodden mute for a daughter. I cast about for ideas. The telly! Apparently no. I thought children were supposed to be addicted to it? I push the notebook and a purple gel pen in front of her but she just whines and grinds her fist into her eye. It looks extraordinarily painful. I’d cry harder also.

          This is dreadful. The neighbors are sure to phone the police. It sounds like I’m torturing an air raid siren.

          I absolutely do not want to pick her up right now. She’s frankly disgusting, and her bellows are making my ears bleed. But John.

          Steeling myself, I attempt to lift her from the floor and she screams and shoves at me, yelling “no!” very definitively. Right then.

          I root through her bag; surely there must be something there to pacify her. I find a dummy, and proffer it, but she shoves it away petulantly. Ah ha, another toy, a rather ratty looking doll. I place it next to her, “There you, go, Watson, take your doll.”

          This produces no discernable results. Nappies, wipes, various implements without which the maintenance of a child is not complete. Some animal shaped fruit gummies…no.  I see nothing of value, aside from a bulb which I set aside in the event that her nasal passages become thoroughly blocked and need to be cleared. The wipes, too, I leave out, as her face is disgraceful.

          The contents of the bag I shove back in, and set aside. Right then. They say music soothes the savage beast, and I recall Mary singing “Hush Little Baby” when Watson was small(er).

          My singing cannot be understood very clearly over the sound of the (not as loud but still considerably annoying and distressing) sobs. I’m beginning to feel like a monster for letting her lie there and cry. A quick search of the internet yields so many conflicting results that I make a mental note to visit the Library and check out some books by actual child psychologist and childcare professionals to garner the most effective (and educated) methods of raising a child. John has given me a test and I’m determined not to fail it.

          Hoping that my violin will reach her, I take it from the desk and think briefly, before I begin a soft rendition of the “Blue Danube Waltz.” It may be my imagination (or perhaps the music is serving to dampen the sound of her cries as they reach my ears) but she doesn’t seem to be quite so indignant and heart-broken just now. I move through my repertoire, forced to improvise at times, watching hopefully as she seems to calm, and then does calm, and then incredibly drops off to sleep, almost from one note to the next. I play on for a while, convinced she’s waiting until I have my guard down, but eventually I’m convinced.

          Carefully, I set down the violin, and watch her. Her face is still flushed and her eyes puffy, her hair damp with sweat, but her breathing, though a bit heavy, is even and deep. With baited breath I tiptoe over and bend down, intending on lifting her and putting her down to sleep on my bed. She squirms and fusses, however, so I let her limp body relax onto the rug once more. I can’t leave her there, in front of the door, so at last I pull the rug farther away from the door, lay a blanket over her and as an afterthought tuck her elephant in next to her.

          Completely exhausted and spent, I collapse into my chair, wishing for a good, bracing cup of John’s tea. There’s no way on earth, however, that I intend on moving at the moment, especially if it means I might wake the little terror from her nap. The flash of an alert on my mobile rouses me enough to fetch it from the sofa, and I see a text from John, which had come through earlier. Small wonder I hadn’t heard it above all the wails.

**Sorry but I got delayed. Had to get out and walk the last few miles, there was a demonstration. It’ll be lunchtime by the time I get back. Fancy takeaway from Angelo’s?**

         

          I tapped out an affirmative, and almost immediately received a response informing me he’d pick up our usual order on his way back. **Doing alright?** The text inquired.

          Dear God, no, please hurry was what I wanted to reply. But too much was riding on this. **We’re fine** , I answered, passing a shaking hand over my sweaty brow, **Watson is down for a nap**.  And then, because I’m an idiot, **Take your time**.

          The things you’re willing to do when you’re in love.


	3. Perhaps It's The Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Christmas draws near, Sherlock finds his mind turning more and more toward the ghosts of the past, and his hopes for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long time in between updates! I've been quite, quite busy lately, and I got caught up in other things. I think there will be two more chapters and then our story will be done. Thanks for anyone who is hanging in with me, and thank you Kabes, for your help with this chapter!

          “Is it weird that I’ve just been assuming Rosie and I are spending Christmas with you?” John asked, picking up the scattered toys on the rug and pushing the sofa table out of the way. He hunted through the desk drawers for the scissors and some sello-tape and a couple of biros; he found a desiccated sandwich with one bite taken out of it which he dropped in the bin next to the desk. Further search revealed a drawer overflowing with receipts, a stack of takeaway menus for Chinese (even though they only ever ate from Susie Wong’s), a handful of unlabeled slides, a jeweled dagger, a box of hair dye (!) in Luxurious Deep Mahogany which was empty of dye but full of toy soldiers, and one mechanical pencil with no lead.

          “Why would that be “weird”?” Sherlock called, just before there was the sound of a slither, followed by the thump and patter of many items falling, and a muttered curse.

          “You alright?” John asked, rummaging in the kitchen drawers. He found a handful of dry biros which he pitched back into the mess; a more extensive hunt unearthed a package of colored gel pens with one missing, more pencils and, remarkably, almost miraculously, right next to it a package of refill lead, and stuck them in his shirt pocket while he continued hunting.

          “A mere tactical error while displacing items…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, grew muffled, then grew stronger as he entered the lounge. “You didn’t say, why should it be weird?”

          Having finally unearthed the scissors in the breadbox, and given up on the sello-tape, John joined him. “It’s a bit presumptuous, that’s all. Especially since your parents no doubt wish to spend the day with you and Mycroft. Did you remember to buy some—” Sherlock held an economy size package of tape aloft and John grinned at him, “Hoping to avoid going to the shops for the next decade?”

          “I sent Wiggins. I gave him my Costco ID and my credit card and he went mad.” Sherlock scowled, “I’ve now got two pallets of toilet paper, a dozen litres of bleach, six bags of frozen fish fingers, and both Mrs. Hudson and I ran out of room for all the boxes of PG Tips he brought home.”

          “Well at least you’ll be clean, well fed and never run out of tea,” John teased, sitting on the rug and pulling bags and boxes toward him. “I hope you didn’t drop these, I had an antique bisque doll in there for Rosie.”

          Sherlock went still, head lowering for a moment, before he said casually, carefully not looking directly at John, his voice displaying faint strain, “When you say antique…”

          “It belonged to Mary’s granny when she was a girl, apparently,” John said, shaking his head, “it was one of the few things she kept from her past. She wanted Rosie to have it and I thought this was the year—”

          “You’re lying,” Sherlock said, scandalized, as he studied John’s placid face, “ _Why_ would you try to make me think…”

          Unable to help laughing, John threw him one of the gel pens and brandished the scissors over a roll of paper printed with gingerbread men, “Just a little April Fool’s Day joke. Hand me that puzzle, will you?”

          “You are aware it is currently the month of December and not actually April first?”

          “Yes, but you’d be _expect_ ing it in April. This way I took you completely by surprise.”

          Sherlock smirked at him, “It lasted for barely five seconds.”

          “That’s longer than I’ve fooled you in the past.”

          “Mm, true.” Sherlock wrapped a hardcover book of Beatrix Potter’s illustrations he’d bought in festive paper with ruthless efficiency. John was always much slower about wrapping, and somehow his creases were never knife-edged, and often he got tangled in the sello-tape. Sherlock was skilled enough that he could have found a holiday job wrapping at Harrod’s gift counter—

although he did scorn ribbons, bows and furbelows as useless fripperies—which had come in handy when Rosie was crawling about under the tree the year before, trying to cram everything in sight in her mouth. “Mummy and Father are coming to town a week early,” he said out of the blue, startling John, who had thought the subject abandoned.

          “Staying at a hotel?”

          “With Mycroft,” They shared a wicked smile at the thought of his solitude being intruded upon by Mummy; Sherlock’s smile faded after a moment, and John missed the creases in his cheeks, the happy light in his eyes. He’d never been particularly romantic, but he liked seeing a smile on Sherlock’s face, wanted to be responsible for putting it there, even if it was just a vaguely mean-spirited glee over Mycroft’s dismay at being forced to attend matinees of The Rockettes and _The Nutcracker_. “They want the four of us to spend Christmas morning at Sherrinford.”

          The silence which followed swallowed all sound before bouncing it back at them with crisp, jarring detail. John knew he needed to say something, but what could he say? Eurus Holmes was deeply, irreversibly damaged, and as a parent he felt capable of comprehending the Holmes parents desire to make up for missed time.

          But…as someone who had nearly died at her hands, as Sherlock’s best friend, as a witness to the torment she’d inflicted upon her brothers in those few, brutal hours, John objected strenuously and with immediate emotional overload to the idea of Sherlock spending any more time there than he had to. And as far as he was concerned, any time at all was too much. Even Mycroft shouldn’t have to face the woman who had tried to kill him; from what little he had gathered, from conjecture, John rather pictured her as a tiny, malignant force in her family, making her brother’s lives miserable and wracking her parents with heartache.

          “So…you’ll be spending the day with them, then?” John finally said awkwardly, unsure what the hell else he _could_ say. They had both made an effort to treat one another with a transparency which had sometimes been missing in the past. But he felt utterly incapable of being honest about this issue right now. Perhaps he’d never be ready to talk about it honestly. It was all tied up with the second worst period of his life and his feelings tangled in stygian depths of loss and despair that John really had no desire to ever examine, his therapist’s urging aside.

          “I…I’ve been going out there once a month,” Sherlock admitted, folding paper around a tea set with care, “I play my violin and read to her. She started playing with me recently.”

          “Jesus…Sherlock…”

          “Mycroft was against it,” he admitted, taping as if Rosie would notice how evenly he placed each piece. “But he’s no longer overseeing her care. I met with Lady Smallwood.” He finally looked up, although his eyes never quite made contact with John’s. “Given our history she was surprisingly generous.”

          “You’ve been going out there for how long…and you didn’t tell me…?” They should have talked about this. Should they have talked about it? Yes…all things considered, John probably should have known what Sherlock was putting himself through.

          Sherlock shrugged his shoulders carefully, as if his skin were too tight and might split if he moved too excessively, “About a month after, after everything. Mummy and Father wanted to go, and once the dust settled, I accompanied them.” He picked at a bit of tape on his thumbnail, “Mycroft hasn’t been back,” Sherlock’s voice dropped, sounding subdued, not triumphant, “I don’t think he’d be going now, except Mummy more or less made it a command performance.”

          “Are they…talking?” John asked delicately, completely abandoning the half-wrapped gift he could no longer focus on. Mycroft had never been a favourite of his—although to be fair, a good deal of that was coloured by his perception of the man which was all influenced by the sour, waspish animosity between the brothers—but he had to be smarting from the loss of control over his sister, and Sherlock had mentioned before that their parents had rather coldly stopped speaking with Mycroft after they found out the enormity of the secret he had been guarding. Given that apparently he had been pressed into service as the family watchdog at the age of fifteen by the mysterious Uncle Rudi, John rather felt sorry for the man. It was hardly fair of the Holmeses to abandon the oversight of their youngest to their brother in law, and the care of their middle son to the eldest and then blame Mycroft when it all went to hell.

          “Things have thawed somewhat,” Sherlock said, sitting up and beginning to wrap again. “Last Christmas was ghastly. Mycroft invented a coup in Uganda and was lifted out by helicopter an hour after he arrived.”

          “Must have been awkward,” John commiserated, aware of what an understatement _that_ was. The previous year was a bit of a numb blur for John; he’d been in a dark depression, grieving Mary and overwhelmed with being tossed into the sole care of Rosie—work had finally kindly told him he wasn’t needed for a few weeks, and he’d been rather isolated, as things between himself and Sherlock rocked back toward normalcy. The season had been incredibly difficult to get through, and although Sherlock had invited him to The Cottage, John hadn’t been able to bear the idea of going back so soon after the year before and all it had recalled for him. Then too, what was he supposed to say to the parents of the woman who had nearly ended his life?

          He’d called in sick to the clinic, asked Harry and her new girlfriend Franny to watch Rosie and passed the twenty-third and twenty-fourth getting grimly and stupendously drunk, and spent a miserable Christmas Day at Harry’s, hungover and regretful, and lonely despite the presence of his daughter and the cadre of high-powered lesbians Harry had invited.

          “Hardly less awkward than this year is bound to be, “Sherlock said moodily. He set aside his package and reached for a gift bag, tissue paper and a tiny cardigan with a pixie hood. They both paused as they heard a sudden wail from upstairs, and Sherlock checked the nanny cam on his phone; John took the momentary distraction to let his eyes track Sherlock’s face, loving him with a sudden sharp pang as he exhibited yet another way in which he cared for Rosie. “She’s gone back to sleep.” Tucking his mobile away, he fluted tissue paper, “We’ve got to be off the island by noon, so Mycroft is having dinner catered at six. Will you and Watson join us?”

          And there it was, that warm feeling that grew brighter in John’s chest each time his friend included him, wanted him…and for him to want Rosie, it made it even better. When Mary was pregnant, John had nursed a secret fear that Sherlock might be rude or dismissive about his child, might consider him or her a hindrance, at best might simply tolerate John’s new role as father with ill-concealed impatience and disdain. The reality had been brilliant in more aspect than one.

          Sherlock was a surprisingly good uncle, an unexpectedly gentle child minder when the child was someone he cared about. Although John had noticed, looking back over their association, that the few instances when they interacted with kids, Sherlock had been surprisingly forbearing. Except for that time on the train to Dublin, with the little ginger boy who’d hung over the back of the seat and eaten sweeties and wiped his runny nose on the headrest. But then, no one was perfect.

          “Why are you looking at me like that?” Sherlock was analyzing him, but in what John termed his “friendly inquisitiveness” manner. It wasn’t the kind of look that stripped you of secrets; it was curiosity and cleverness and caring masked as something less emotional. John loved that look.

          “Just…happy.” John hoped he didn’t betray his utter mawkishness right now. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to just take Sherlock’s hand and tell him he had feelings far deeper than friendship.

          Sherlock’s expression lightened, his eyes reflecting affection, “It must be the effects of the season…I’m rather happy myself.”

 

******

 

          This is not me. I’m not this person…this happy, gift-wrapping, child-minding person who brings that light into John Watson’s eyes. And yet, and yet, I _am_. I am not deluding myself that he is happier, lighter; and it isn’t only my desire for him influencing my analysis of the looks he gives me. It isn’t only my desire for him which drives my behaviour; I genuinely enjoy my interactions with Watson. Day by day she owns my affections. It is not simply that she is her father’s daughter. And I think she is fond of me; not only for the coloured pens and the violin playing, and not simply because I secretly share my chocolate biscuits with her. Her affection is transparent, easily expressed. Her father’s, less so.

          For all I can deduce a person down to the size of their underwear, I mistrust myself when it comes to the intricacies of John’s heart. I’ve spent years wondering about the silently intense moments when our eyes meet in the mirror, that upward look of awe and affection (and dare I say desire) when John is standing too close and regarding me too intently. I constantly find myself analyzing the tilt of his head, the warmth of his tone, the distance between us when he sits next to me in taxis. How long his hand lingers on my back when he’s urging me out of the room in the midst of an argument with SOCO over their dribbling incompetence; the exact pressure of his fingertips squeezing my forearm in warning when I become too impatient with witless clients.

          A part of me is disgusted with myself for allowing sentiment to occupy so much of my thoughts; another, smaller, but very intense part of me, a part which has been growing stronger since I nearly lost John, since I began recovering memories, is exultant at all the signs of what _must_ be John’s very real regard.

          One thing I am certain of as of this moment, however, is the turbulent feelings he tried to conceal from me earlier today. The knowledge that I’ve been visiting and communing with the woman who chained him to the bottom of a well, a woman who very nearly forced him to shoot a man, the woman who was directing my moves, demanding I kill either John or Mycroft…it curdled in his stomach, sour and uneasy. I know, because it feels that way to me as well.

          I hate visiting her, and yet I keep going. I’m not entirely certain why I continued to visit, after that first time at Mummy’s insistence. All these many months, I’ve half envied Mycroft his estrangement…although the reality is that I’ve never had difficulty in telling Mummy no. Or at any rate, not in the last ten years or so. It is one of the reasons I refuse to visit more than once a year, the reason I treat them coldly and slam doors in their face. I am aware that upon first meeting them, John thought I found them embarrassing, and that was why he was barely aware of their existence. (He also thought them adorable and simple and naïve, none of which they are, and yet, all of which they are).

          Mummy was brilliant, mercurial and forgetful. Her affection was uneven; either smothering or neglectful. Days would pass when we rarely saw her, punctuated by sudden extremes of affection and attention that felt overwhelming and slightly untrustworthy. This carried on until it became apparent that we were too wild, too intelligent, too willful to leave in the care of a housekeeper, a nanny or a tutor. Mycroft was a born rule-abider (until he grew old and powerful enough to make the rules, thus rendering his existence cripplingly dull as he now makes, enforces and follows the rules), but I was a daring and challenging child, and Eurus was difficult, dangerous, fey. Leaving her academic career behind, Mummy set herself to educate us until such time as we were fit to attend school.

          The maintaining of the family home and finances fell to Father. Diligence ensured his career, and maintained our comfort, but it never achieved him any professional acclaim, or the accruing of any significant savings. Mummy treated him (treats him) like a child. As if he were one more burden for her to bear. I think perhaps he disappointed her as much as her children have done.

          Mycroft’s present wealth was solely attained by him, through ruthless, shrewd and calculated stock market dealings, and a breathtaking tightfistedness (except when it comes to cakes and tailoring). My trust fund was and is maintained by him, and any additional comforts above and beyond those afforded by their pension which our parents enjoy are purely at his discretion. They resent him for this, while at the same time taking care not to express it too overtly, lest their comfort disappear. I know he holds it over them, although he would never say it aloud. It is the only method of revenge he has ever allowed himself.

          No, leaving the matter of Eurus aside, our family was never so simple or sweet.

          If there were entire parts of my early life I willfully obliterated and adulterated into something that my younger self felt capable of handling, Mummy was complicit in allowing, indeed in _encouraging_ , my mental machinations. Father never wanted any responsibility for any of us, ceding control to his wife with never a sign of disagreement; he too bears some of the guilt for what became of us all.

          So yes, my parents are charming, somewhat forgetful, kind and silly and generous; but they are also harder and colder, more pragmatic and calculating than a father as loving and giving and protective, a man as honourable and decent as John Watson can imagine. Mycroft, myself…Eurus…our differences were learned and honed on a keen blade.

          We didn’t get it all from the isolation our great intelligence affords us.

 

******

 

          [Sent 22:16] John & Watson are joining us for Christmas dinner. SH

          [Received 22:17] How delightful.

          [Sent 22:17] You will be civil to John. SH

          [Received 22:19] When am I not?

          [Sent 22:19] Watson will be eating at table with us. SH

          [Received 22:20] And my day grows ever more glorious.

          [Sent 22:21] You grow ever more tiresome. SH

          [Sent 22:21] She is passably skilled at getting more food to her mouth than she adorns herself with. SH

          [Received 22:25] They are both welcome.

          [Sent 22:25] You’re being suspiciously agreeable. What’s your price? SH

          [Received 22:31] There is no price. As I said, they are both welcome.

          [Sent 22:31] I don’t believe you’re giving in that easily. You must have a reason. SH

          [Received 22:32] Perhaps it’s the season?

          [Sent 22:33] Oh please. What do you want from me in return? SH

          [Received 22:46] My agreement does not come with a price. I said they are welcome, and they are. Now, might I return to the very important matters which require my attention? Or would you like me to send a formal contract guaranteeing courteousness?

          [Sent 22:47] Yes, yes, you’re very important. Now tell me why you’re surrendering so quickly? SH

          [Received 22:52] Mummy will be less…herself…with guests.

          [Received 23:04] No clever insult?

          [Sent 23:12] I thought much the same thing. SH

          [Sent 23:12] Do not under pain of excruciating death tell John I said as much. SH

          [Received 23:13] I shouldn’t dream of it. Goodnight, little brother.

          [Sent 23:27] Goodnight, My. SH

 

          Tossing his phone aside, Sherlock rubbed his forehead, aware of a headache looming. He was tired of thinking of his sister, of his past, tired of recalling all the tiny, irksome, terrible, wonderful things from his childhood which he had so successfully hidden from himself for many years. In many ways he would welcome a return of his former emotional detachment.

          But even if he could have once more blocked memories from his childhood from spilling into his conscious mind like India ink clouding a class of clear water, there was no way he could return his heart to the untouched state it had remained in for decades. He had John Watson to thank for that. John, and Watson, and to a lesser, but still significant, extent, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and Lestrade. Now he had people who cared about him, people he cared about in return. Emotion might compromise his intellect, but he found he cared less than he might once have done.

          Sometimes the payoff was worth it.

          “God, when did I become so _maudlin_?” Sherlock growled to the empty room, thrusting himself upright from where he’d been slumped in his chair. He was _brooding_. He paced the room, wishing for a cigarette (the darker, deeper wish to obliterate his turbulent thoughts and messy emotions with heroin was there, but one he refused to look at) to calm his nervousness. John had insisted they eat before he and Watson left, and he had acquiesced, if for no other reason than his goal of seeing John attain his former weight. Then too, John was more agreeable when he was fed and when he had seen Sherlock eat.

          The food left him feeling slightly sluggish, slow, but his internal turmoil drove him to pace, glancing out the window. It occurred to him to call Wiggins, go down to his lab, begin an experiment. Or he could ignore the frigid night and take a long walk—his Belstaff would keep him warm enough. But there were dangers in the night which had nothing to do with muggers, and it was safer for him to stay within the walls of 221B. Sherlock crossed to the fireplace, where the remains of the fire he had started early in the evening were settling into glowing coals, and leaned his arm on the mantel. John had hung a bit of fresh greenery he’d picked up, and the sharp, clean smell reminded Sherlock of Christmases at his grandmother’s house.

          “Perhaps it’s the season,” he muttered, tapping one of the silver bells which hung from a plaid ribbon in the center of the garland. The bells tinkled faintly, and he closed his eyes at the sweet sound, recalling with exquisite detail John’s face as he held Watson up so she could set the bells ringing. Perhaps it was the season. Something was to blame for the sharp ache which had come to roost behind his ribs when he had to wave John and Watson off to their home.

          He very much hoped that John decided to return permanently to Baker Street. His place was with Sherlock. They fit one another, worked best as a team. He had to find a way to make John see that he wanted that, and that Watson would be a part of their team as well. He just had to get through until John’s self-imposed deadline, and then surely he would get them with him full-time.

          The next five months would be interminable.

         

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders


End file.
